while she could. The first-on-the-scene reports wouldn’t be ready until closer to noon. Home and her bed a dream, reality was a hard cot off the break room where she’d wake with more pains than she went down with.
“Detective Caissie?”
She blinked upward in surprise to find DeShawn Coulette next to her desk. In his well-worn casuals, he could have been any kid fighting for a bright future she hoped she wouldn’t interrupt.
“Thanks for coming in, DeShawn. Let’s take it in back. It’s noisy out here.” And she no longer trusted some of the eyes on her business.
Rising stiffly, Cee Cee waited until her shifting center of gravity settled before leading the way through the parade of mostly empty desks to one of the interview rooms. She made sure recording was off before gesturing to an uncomfortable chair. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Smart and polite. Sometimes she hated her job for forcing kids like Coulette into the line of fire. To put him at ease, she started with the usual wide scope of questions then narrowed them into ones that could get him killed. He answered simply, directly, and articulately. His shift had started at six. Leo arrived at close to nine when the place was full and noisy. DeShawn had taken on extra tables, and Leo was sitting at one of them.
“Had you seen him in Pour Boy’s before?”
“He’s a reg, always scoping for a comp drink. He was at the bar on his cell for ’bout ten minutes before he asked ’bout the room. A rez cancelled. Bad juju for him.”
“How did he seem? Anxious? Eager?”
“Didn’t pay him much mind. We were slamming, and he ain’t much for tippin’.” His dialect relaxed along with his shoulders. Then he paused, expression thoughtful. “He was looking to hook up when he came in.”
“With a working girl?”
“Naw. He be all business. Got all up in the face with one of the staff so she was bitchin’ ’bout it.”
Cee Cee readied her pen. “Her name?”
“Valerie Harmon.” He fidgeted. “Could you not tell her I gave her up?”
She smiled. “No problem. You said he was on his phone. Making calls or getting them?”
A shrug. “Doan know, but he were loud, and customers complained. Got into it with the bartender when she asked him to take it down.” DeShawn paused, brows lowering then raising in remembrance. “Until he made a call. Then he be like, ‘Drinks on me’ and big smiles.”
“That’s when he asked for the room.”
“Yes, ma’am. Glo, the bartender, were laying odds that he scored some big meet from the way he was talking, cuz he asked for the room to do some business. You won’t tell her—”
“Everything you say to me is confidential.” While he sighed in relief, she dealt out a half dozen photos. “Any of these faces familiar?”
He studied the lineup of six middle-aged white men. “Sure. Seen ’em all a time or two in for a drink or a meal. But last night,” he finger-tapped one print, “this one. Seen him on the news. Why I ’membered him talking to Glo at the bar.”
On the edge of her chair, she leaned in. “Think carefully, DeShawn. How close was that to when you heard the shot?”
“’bout five minutes before.”
Cee Cee picked up the photo, staring hard into those cool, authoritative eyes.
Gotcha, you son of a bitch.
Thoughts of that nap in back fled as quickly as her witness in his hurry to make class on time. Cee Cee compiled her sketched-out notes into a compelling list to draw upon down the line as adrenaline instead of caffeine washed away her exhaustion. With hours to go before she could interview the bartender, she knew she should go home to at least shower and change, but—though she’d yet to admit it—she wasn’t ready to continue the discussion Max wanted to have. She needed to gather her data and organize her talking points before confronting that oh-so-important meeting. She couldn’t do that in the increasingly noisy precinct where the danger of running into her partner before she assembled a game face increased by the minute.
Tired, emotionally on empty, Cee Cee turned to where she always did for comfort when that rare situation slipped her grasp.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Looks like you pulled an all-nighter, too.”
Mary Kate Malone turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice, hand automatically rising to shield old scars carved into the face of a beautiful teen. Defenses dropping, Mary Kate smiled, the gesture weary but welcoming.